


Finding Room to Breathe

by us_against_theworld



Series: She Waits [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Charles joins the crew, F/M, First Meetings, Flirting, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Minor Character Death, POV Second Person, Period-Typical Racism, Period-Typical Sexism, Unfortunate Implications, oh no gotta take care of your wounds trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:47:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23441395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/us_against_theworld/pseuds/us_against_theworld
Summary: A jump back in time from No Matter What The Weather, we explore how Reader and Charles first meet
Relationships: Charles Smith (Red Dead Redemption)/Reader, Charles Smith/Original Female Character
Series: She Waits [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615042
Comments: 11
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Literally no one asked for this to be a series yet here we are and I Regret Nothing. This can easily be read as a reader insert but I am slowly going to flesh out *Reader with delicious tragic backstory

Fuckin’ rain. Why did it  _ always  _ have to rain on your watch? Not a light spring shower either but heavy, thick, cold sheets that soaked to the bone. The icy wind off the snow capped Grizzlies in the distance didn’t help either. Shivering violently, you tuck under what little cover the trees provided and bundle the watch rifle closer to your chest, praying it would be time for the guard change soon. Maybe the stew tonight would have some of that elk you'd caught yesterday….

The cracking of branches and stomping hooves broke through the pounding rain as shapes began to emerge at the trail-head leading into camp. Three riders, when only two had gone out this morning. Guess it’s showtime.

“Who goes there?” you call over the howling wind. When no answer comes you raise your rifle at the approaching riders, shouting now, “Name yourself!”

“It’s Arthur! Don’t get yer damn knickers in a twist.”

Lowering the rifle, you huff fondly. “Don’t you concern yourself over the state of my knickers, Mister Morgan.” 

A bark of laughter answers back, Arthur’s sunburnt face finally coming into view through the downpour. Behind him John comes trudging along, looking every inch a disgruntled wet cat. 

“Better get under cover, John, hate for you to drown out here.”

“Fuck you,” he bites back grumpily.

“You  _ wish _ .”

Arthur snickers as John steers Old Boy past; it was always fun, pestering him. Poor fool made it too easy. Smiling, you reach out to give Boadicea a fond chin scratch, the heat from her soaked coat a pleasant respite for your numb fingers.

“Hey, pretty girl. You taking care of this old timer?”

“Sure,” Arthur drawls. “When she’s not too busy takin’ care of infants like you. When you gettin’ another horse?”

“When I can find one to match up to Adelaide,” you sigh. “Hard to measure up to ten years of her.”

“Well, the right one’ll come along. Dutch here?”

“Yeah. You ‘n John are the only one’s gone out today, everyone else’s been waitin’ out the storm.”

“Good. Might have a new gun, wanted to let ‘em meet,” Arthur tilts his head back, rainwater sheeting off the brim of his hat.

Peeking around Bo, you eye the straggler who’d been silently sitting behind Arthur, so quiet you’d almost forgotten. He was too wrapped up to see much besides rich brown eyes and a wide nose. When he gives a silent nod you return the gesture easily.

“Well, he’s already better than Micah,” you snort.

“Pile of cow shit’s better than Micah. I’ll see ya in there, kid.”

“Later, old man.”

Giving Boadicea a final pat, you tuck back under the tree to let Arthur and Mystery Man pass, taking in his gorgeous Appaloosa. You’d always loved the breed, their intelligence, loyalty, and bravery. Bundling deeper into your damp coat, you lean against the tree and contemplate horse breeds until the waning sun brings the gift of Sean relieving you from watch. 

Making a beeline for your tent, you swap out your soaked clothes and manage to snag the last dredges of supper, sans elk, before ducking beneath a tarp where most of the girls, Lenny, and Javier were crowded.

“And then the duck says, ‘There’s a man attached to my ass!’” Karen finished, almost too busy cackling to get the words out.

Her audience erupts into fits of laughter, Tilly giggling so hard she starts that adorable snorting thing, which only redoubles everyone’s howling. Smiling, you squeeze next to Javier as he wipes his eyes, still chuckling.

“You’re gonna have to tell me that one later, Karen.”

“Urraca! You finally joined us!” Javier exclaims, slapping you on the back.

“Well some of us had to keep watch today, Escuella,” you gripe good naturedly while tucking into your stew. Would it kill Pearson to use something besides salt?

“What did you just call her?” Jenny titters at Lenny’s side.

“It means Magpie,” you groan. 

Jenny scrunches her nose. “Like the bird? Why?”

“You haven’t heard that story yet, Jenny?” Abigail smiles at her head shake. “You wanna tell her, Mags?”

“I thought Mags was just short for Maggie or somethin’,” Jenny smiles softly.

“If only,” you sigh dramatically. “I ain’t near drunk enough so the short version is, Dutch and Hosea found me in a bad way, took me in, gave me the name. It just stuck and I didn’t have an interest in changin’ it.”

“It’s an apt description, I must say,” Dutch spoke suddenly at your side. “Intelligent, curious, secretive, prone to lifting shiny objects.”

Snorting, you stand to face the man, eager to be out from under Jenny’s curious gaze. “What’re you buttering me up for, Mr. van der Linde?”

Dutch lays one hand dramatically over his heart as the other lands on your back to move towards his tent.

“I resent that, my dear! Can’t a man simply point out the natural attributes of a dear friend and companion?”

“Sure, if it wasn’t followed by some job for me to do. Which it usually is.”

“See? There’s that intelligence I mentioned, Magpie.”

Rolling your eyes, the pair of you duck into Dutch’s tent to find Arthur and Mystery Man squeezed inside, making it a tight fit with four people. Under cover the man had removed his hat, scarf, and overcoat and  _ wow _ . Long jet black hair is plastered wetly to wide, sharp cheekbones that framed a full nose and lips. He’s taller than even Arthur; the muscle straining the chest and arms of his shirt making him seem bigger, if possible. You weren’t a slight woman but this guy made you feel tiny just occupying the same space as him.

“Charles Smith, this is Mags,” Arthur gestures between you as this Charles extends a hand, practically swallowing yours whole in a firm shake. “Charles, this is the girl I was tellin’ you about.”

“A pleasure,” he mumbles softly, warm brown eyes catching yours.

Holy  _ fuck  _ where did Arthur find this specimen? Blinking rapidly to break the man’s gaze, you turn to Arthur with a nervous grin.

“What kinda shit you been tellin’ him, Arthur? Only good things?”

“Well if that was the case I wouldn’t a had much to say, now would I?” Arthur winks cheekily.

Clearing his throat, Dutch steps forward to clap a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Mister Smith here does not come empty handed; he brings information. An army outpost, not half a day’s ride from here. Sparsely equipped but they use it as a drop off for payroll and supplies for Forts Mercer and Wallace before wagons come to split it up. Mister Smith says they’ll be bringing in money and ammo tonight then collecting everything to move in the morning.”

“I’ve had my eyes on them for a few months, they’ll be there. The place is well guarded, security is tight,” Charles says evenly.

“So….. where do I come into this? I’m not opposed to a firefight but that seems more Bill’s thing,” you crinkle your forehead, confused.

“Well, we got to talkin’,” Arthur spoke up, nodding at Charles.

“There’s a break in the rear wall of the building maybe eight feet off the ground. It’s too small for me to get in through but I think you’ll fit.” Charles' eyes flit over your form at that last bit.

“How well guarded we talkin’ here?”

“Twenty to thirty men at any given time, thirty max.”

You nod, mulling the information over.

“I’m good at what I do but I don’t wanna be stuck in there on my own if shit goes south.” Was it really boasting if you were just speaking the truth? “Javier’s about my size, how about we bring him?” 

“S’what I was thinkin’,” Arthur says, rubbing at his scruffy chin. “Me ‘n Mister Smith outside, you an’ Javier go in; everyone has someone watchin’ their ass.”

“Sounds good to me,” you shrug.

“Excellent!” Dutch crows jovially, always pleased at the prospect of more money. “Go collect Mister Escuella and be on your way, light’s dying fast and this storm is only going to get worse. Be safe.”

Stopping by your tent to grab weapons and an oilskin duster, you duck back underneath the tarp to collect Javier, who groans reluctantly as you fill him in.

“In this shit?” he gestures to the rain, which had only started coming down harder since you’d entered Dutch’s tent.

“Has to be tonight,” you shrug. “Hey Karen! You good with me takin’ out Belle?”

“Sure. She just got new shoes yesterday, too. Needs to stretch her legs some,” she says absently, engrossed in whatever Mary-Beth is saying.

Nodding your thanks to Karen, you trail behind Javier as he gathers his gear and give him the rundown on the job. Arthur and Charles were waiting on you, Arthur fielding introductions as you tack up Belle. Swinging into the saddle, you tuck your hat further over your head and nod to the other three.

“Mister Smith, lead the way.”

The ride was rough, the rain seeming to pound down on your little party harder with every passing mile. You and Arthur brought up the rear, smirking to one another as Javier yammered the new guy’s ear off. Javier paid no mind to Charles’ quick, one word answers and chattered the time away, sometimes just slipping back into complete Spanish for minutes at a time before he realized.

“Let’s leave the horses here,” Charles calls, snapping you out of the trace you’d fallen into, pounding hooves a relaxing melody.

Dismounting and gearing up, the four of you sneak quietly through a thick copse of trees towards the dim glow of lantern light in the distance. Lingering just inside the treeline, you huddle behind a wide, flowering dogwood to scan the area.

An old stone building sits out against the scrubby prairie grass like a sore thumb, lantern light casting it in harsh relief. You can just barely make out voices above the hammering rain as four men sit huddled under an ancient lean to, beer bottles clutched in fumbling hands as they laugh too loudly at something that probably wasn’t that funny.

“Wagon hasn’t come yet, could’ve been delayed by the storm,” Charles murmurs, sharp eyes raking over the building.

“How do you know?” you frown.

He points to the upper floor of the building where a lone door breaks up the expanse of weather beaten wood siding. “The supplies are kept in that room until the wagons come in the morning. Once it’s in there, a guard mans the door until it’s time to move everything. Either they’ve had an issue with thievery within or the army is that distrustful of its employees.”

“So we just waitin’ until the wagon comes?” Arthur whispers

“Don’t think there’s much else to do,” Javier sighs, leaning against a nearby tree and twirling a small dagger between his fingers.

“So now we wait.”

Time passes slower when you’re cold and wet, the past hour seeming more like four despite what Arthur’s pocket watch said. The man was crouched against a tree sleeping, of all things. His ability to cat nap pretty much anywhere was honestly kind of impressive. Charles had hardly moved, tucked back into the upturned collar of his coat while keeping his eyes on the road. Javier was still twiddling a dagger in his hands, blade flashing silver bright in the lightning bursts. He sighs, leaning up to peek at the distant building before turning back to lock eyes with you and breaking the silence.

“When are you gonna let me take you out, mi amor?”

Scoffing and clearing your throat, you smile sarcastically at him.

“When pigs fly, Javier.”   
“Would throwing Uncle off a bridge count?” His grin was dazzling.

“I said  _ fly _ , not take a flying leap.”

“Angels have wings."

“You know my rule,” you roll your eyes. “And I doubt Uncle would be gettin’ wings.”

“Ah, but I wouldn’t expect any under the clothes action until at least the third date and by then my romantic prowess will have won you over,” he boasts.

“Your sweet talk needs some work, Escuella,” you giggle reluctantly.

“I beg to differ, nena, if it makes you smile like-”

“Quiet,” Charles whispers sharply, nudging Arthur awake with his foot.

You follow Charles extended hand to a lone, large armored wagon slogging down the muddied road. The four of you watch in silence as it comes skidding to a halt in the barren courtyard and soldiers dutifully tote cases and bulging sacks to the upper level door Charles had indicated. As predicted, when the emptied wagon turns back out onto the slippery road, a guard takes a stoic vigil in front of the wooden door. You all turn to Charles, awaiting the next move.

“All right. Let’s go,” his voice just barely audible above the rumbling thunder.

Creeping around to the rear of the building, your little party moved silently up to the wall According to Charles, there would be a twenty minute window for you and Javier to get in and out with as much as possible before a patrol came back around. The smooth rock wall gives way to a crumbling wound in the solid structure about eight feet in the air that you eye skeptically.

“I dunno if I can squeeze in there,” you whisper doubtfully to Arthur. Javier eyes the crevice with the same scrunched face.

“Sure you can, you’re a tiny little thing,” Arthur elbows you, grinning.

“I’m a normal sized person, thanks very much. Just because you and New Guy here are built like bears-”

“Can we do this later?” Charles interrupts, leaning impatiently against the wall waiting to boost you up.

Shrugging, you hand Arthur your rifle and duster to stand almost chest to chest with Charles and put your hands on his shoulder. He’s startlingly warm despite the rain, muscles flexing under your palms.

“It’s bigger than it looks,” he says quietly, the puff of his breath carrying the sweet tang of mint leaves.

Sliding a foot into his waiting hands, Charles hoists you easily into the air; the crevice is indeed  _ much _ bigger than it looks from the ground, allowing you to slip silently in. A moment later Javier follows and the pair of you begin quickly, carefully transferring heavy burlap sacks out to Arthur as Charles keeps lookout. Not ten minutes pass before you and Javier have cleared the room of money and as much ammo as you could carry; heart racing and painfully aware of the man on the other side of the thin door, you give Javier the thumbs up and take his hands to lower him through the broken wall, rolling your eyes at the ghost of a kiss he grazes across your knuckles.

“Really?” you hiss. 

He only winks in response before sliding from your grip and landing on the ground silent and graceful as a cat. Once you join them, everyone grabs bags and beats a hasty retreat to the safety of the treeline, the fort and its occupants entirely unaware of its visitors, here and gone like a bird in the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Y'know that scene where Arthur and Charles beat the shit out of those bounty hunters and Charles just casually steps on that guy's throat and tells him to stay down?
> 
> Yeah

Well, I reckon this is the smoothest job we had in a couple o’ months,” Arthur smiles. “Welcome to the van der Linde gang, Mister Smith, I’m sure you’ll come to regret it. Don’t eat the stew, if you value your life.”

Charles offers a small smile as you and Javier laugh softly. The rain had mercifully stopped once your group had returned to the horses and in its wake left squelching mud paths and clean, cool air. Everyone rides on in silence for a while, enjoying the return of yipping coyotes and hooting owls without the pounding rain drumming to the forefront of hearing.

“Hey, there’s a tavern not too far from here with great tequila,” Javier pipes up suddenly. “Let’s buy the new guy a drink, take it easy for a bit. Can’t remember the last time I wasn’t in camp.”

Charles shrugs and hums noncommittally, leaving it up to you and Arthur.

“Ah, why the hell not,” Arthur feigns reluctance poorly at your nod. “Spare me a few hours of Marston’s cryin’.”

Perking up considerably, Javier takes point and leads the group to a tiny, rundown tavern nestled in a small valley. Hitching the horses, it’s surprising to walk through the doors and find the place practically bursting at the seams with liquor soaked patrons. In place of the traditional piano player is a sultry, smoky voiced woman in a gaudy, revealing dress tucked into the furthest corner of the building.

Elbowing your way to the bar to order shots and beers, the four of you find a secluded table and give your cursory ‘welcome to the gang’ toast before downing the shots. You start coughing once the shot goes down, unused to such strong liquor.

“Goddamn, you weren’t kiddin’,” you gasp. “Shit’s good.”

“I told you! You want another?” Javier winks, downing a shot like water.

“Hell yeah, give it.” 

This one goes down smoother now that you’re mindful of the burn and Javier cheers, well on his way to being good and sussed. Smiling and downing the third shot, you turn to find Arthur and Charles talking in low voices with half empty beer bottles held loosely in their hands. Arthur’s shoulders are slowly losing the normal tightness they carry and it does your heart good to see him a little bit relaxed, if just for a few hours.

Javier’s arm around your waist makes you jump; his eyes are just starting to get that glassy, far away look as he gives you a tight one armed hug.

“ _Your eyes are so beautiful, Magpie_ . _”_

“Y’know I don’t speak much Spanish, Javi,” you smile indulgently at the man.

“ _I love it when you say my name like that_ ,” he says dreamily, leaning heavily on your shoulder.

“Here,” you slap a dollar into his hand. “Go buy us some more shots.”

And with that you shove him off, giggling as he weaves his way through the mass of bodies and booze to the bar, stumbling only slightly. Smiling, you turn to find Arthur and Charles watching you, Arthur’s mouth curled up in an indulgent smirk.

“Don’t, Arthur,” you snip before taking a sip of your beer.

“Boy’s got it bad, Mags. He should be proposin’ any day now,” Arthur cackles.

“I love Javier like a brother but he’s a hound! He’ll sweet talk and flatter a girl outta her knickers but that’s all he wants.” Right on cue, you point over to the bar where Javier is leaning haphazardly against the polished wood and talking lowly with a busty working girl. Whatever he says makes her giggle flirtatiously and bat her thickly made-up eyes at him.

Arthur sighs and takes a hearty swig of his beer. “Javier’s been pinin’ after you for months, kid. Pretty sure that’s somethin’ more than a roll in the hay.”

“Yeah, well too bad. You know my rule, Arthur. More importantly, you know _why_.”

Arthur’s brow furrows at that, a heavily laden look crossing his face. He goes to say something when a thought suddenly occurs to you. Shushing him and draining the last of the beer, you stand and walk over to a working girl that’s leaning against a wall, kohl lined eyes raking through the crowd. Her midnight blue dress contrasts sharply with her ivory skin to give her an almost ethereal pallor, like freshly driven snow.

“Miss?” You clear your throat, shuffling awkwardly.

The woman turns jade eyes to you, brow knit in confusion.

“What can I do for ya, sugar?”

“Y’see that guy over at the bar, with the brunette?” You point out Javier, who has the girl practically in his lap at this point. The woman nods. “Can- uh, would you give this to her, for him? Didn’t wanna interrupt ‘em.”

Shoving a billfold towards the woman, you smile weakly. While taking it she eyes you curiously, like she’s trying to figure out a puzzle.

“I will, honey. First time for everything, I reckon,” she snorts before making her way to the bar.

Satisfied, you return to your vacant seat and find Arthur’s chair empty, leaving Charles to twirl a shot glass between his fingers. Across the crowd, you see Javier and the brunette disappearing down a narrow hallway.

“Where’d Arthur get off to?”

Charles nods to the entrance and mimes smoking.

“Ah.”

Silence settles between you two; the woman in the corner has been replaced by a man on piano, bright jangling notes beginning to fray on your nerves.

“You want another whiskey?” Charles nearly has to yell over the din.

“Sure, wouldn’t mind one,” you shrug and toss him some change. 

Charles nods sharply before making his way to the bar. He doesn’t seem to have to wade through the sea of bodies like you did. People move or else he just slips easily between them, surprisingly graceful for his size. Nice ass, too.

“Well wassa pretty lil thang like you doin’ all alone, baby doll?” A loud voice slurs by your shoulder.

A man looms over your chair, reeking of alcohol and stale smoke. His pale, freckled cheeks are flush with drink and he has to lean on Javier’s vacant chair to keep steady.

“I ain’t alone,” you say curtly. “My friend’s gettin’ us drinks.”

“Lady like you’s got no business hanging ‘round that type, why don’t you come over an’ meet my buddies?” A sweaty hand slips around your upper arm at that.

You yank out of his grip, trying desperately to keep a lid on the anger bubbling in your gut. Attracting attention on the tail end of a job was never a good idea.

“I ain’t goin’ nowhere with you, even if you hadn’t just insulted my friend. Don’t touch me again.”

Charles appears from the crowd, two bottles held in his hands and eyes trained on the current pain in your ass.

“You good?” He asks evenly while handing you a bottle. You nod sharply, surprised and grateful he doesn’t try to butt in.

“Hey!” the man squawks at Charles. “I was talkin’ to the lady here, get lost!”

The man’s hand slaps hard onto your shoulder, fingers digging into your collarbone. Red washes over your vision and without ceremony you whip around to wrench the man’s hand from your shoulder, bending his fingers and wrist back sharply enough to drive the man to his knees with a yelp. His half empty beer shatters on the floor next to him and silence falls when the sound draws the bar’s full attention.

“I said,” you snarl, “don’t fuckin’ touch me. Now, you gonna leave? Or you want me to break somethin’?”

With every word you crank his fingers back a touch more, making him cry out loudly.

“I’ll leave, I’ll leave! Just- just lemme go, you crazy bitch!” he whines.

You lean into the man's space to hiss, "Get outta my sight 'fore I break your whole damn arm."

With that, you shove him over and turn back to your table and Charles, who looks faintly amused. Chatter and piano music roar back to life once it's clear the other patrons aren't getting a show. Sitting heavily, you pop open your neglected whiskey and drink deeply to drown the irritation still thrumming in your veins.

"Thank you," is whispered to Charles after the beer is drained.

His brow twists in confusion.

"I didn't do anything," he shrugs.

"For that. I know most of the guys mean well but I don't need help takin' care of myself."

Charles smiles at that, small and soft. "Clearly."

"I leave you alone for five minutes an' some drunk comes flying out the door hollerin' about a psycho lady almost breakin' his arm," Arthur grumbles as he rejoins you. 

“I’ll eat my hat if he actually said ‘lady’ and not ‘bitch’.”

“Well, I was tryin’ to be polite,” Arthur smiles. “Where’d Javier get off to?”

“I bought him some time with a girl so they’re probably rollin’ in that hay you was talkin’ about earlier,” you wink at him.

“You- dammit Mags, he’s gonna be all night!” he groans.

“That’s the idea. Now he ain’t pesterin’ me _and_ he gets his dick wet. I’m an awesome friend!”

Charles sputters around the mouthful of beer he just took to laugh. Beside him, Arthur is poorly hiding a smile under the guise of looking annoyed.

“Such a lady. Who raised you?” he teases.

“I’ve never claimed anything of the sort and I did, if you couldn’t tell. Hell, I’ll buy you a girl too if you'd stop talkin’ about my love life!”

The blush creeping above Arthur’s collar is its own satisfaction.

“No, no. Tell ya what, though. You ‘n Mister Smith here can head on and get our, uh, _purchases_ back to camp. I’ll snag lover boy once he’s done,” Arthur drawls as he settles deeper into his seat and pulls out his ever-present journal, already scratching away at a half blank page.

Paying for your drinks, you and Charles leave Arthur to his writing and transfer all of the night’s spoils to your horses before returning to the lonely road. Miles trickle by in easy silence, broken only by the distant cry of a lone wolf out somewhere on the prairie.

“So, how’d you cross paths with John and Arthur?” you ask as curiosity finally gets the better of you.

Charles shrugs. “We were both scoping out the fort, ran into each other. Arthur’s very…. friendly, likes to talk to strangers more than I’d have thought.”

“God, you have no idea,” you snort. “He meets the strangest people and gets into the wildest shit. I’d think he was spinnin’ tales if I hadn’t been along for some of it.”

Charles raises a brow at that, asking without words.

“We ran into a, oh christ,” you start giggling just dredging up the memory. “A pair of _monster hunters_ in Arizona who thought they were trackin’ a uh, what was it? Some kinda dinosaur bird. Oh, a pterosaur! Turns out they was chasin’ a vulture what had the mange!”

You dissolve into laughter and wipe your eyes as Charles chuckles softly beside you. The muted sound of hooves on dirt changes sharply to the hard clack of metal shoes on wood as the pair of you enter an ancient, covered bridge. Frowning, you bring Belle to a halt once you exit the bridge and dismount. 

“Something wrong?” Charles asks, still in the saddle and leaning easily on the horn.

“Heard somethin’ funny with Belle’s shoes goin’ over the bridge, wanted to check it out,” you call while picking up her leg.

The late hour and waning moon means you have to feel more so than see the issue but when you do, soured and familiar irritation crawls up your neck.

“Fucking Bill! I done told that stupid halfwit more times than I can count to stop shoeing the horses if he ain’t gonna do it right!”

“She lose a shoe?” Charles calls.

“No but it’s pretty damn loose,” you gripe while digging through a saddlebag for your nippers. “Fuckin’ idiot don’t remember to clinch half the damn nails. Karen’s gonna rip him a new asshole after I’m done doin’ it!”

Charles merely hums lowly as he lights a cigarette while you remove Belle’s offending shoe. He mutters something about going to take a piss before disappearing into the nearby trees. Belle’s a well trained, docile girl and it’s only a few minutes before you’re chucking the shoe into your saddlebag with the express intention of shoving it up Bill’s ass later. Waiting on Charles, you’re scratching along Belle’s neck when thundering hooves jar the pleasant silence of the night.

“Well lookie here, boys! It’s van der Linde’s little whore!”

Dread settles heavily in your stomach as three mounted figures appear at the mouth of the bridge, torch held high in one’s hand to effectively block your view. You discreetly scan the treeline for Charles but find nothing. Shit.

“Not that it's any way to talk to a lady but who the fuck are you?” you deflect. Two you could take without too much difficulty but three starts stacking the odds uncomfortably against you.

The man with the torch dismounts and steps forward as he passes it off to the rider on his left.

“I know it’s been a while, sweet cheeks, but do ya really not recognize me? That hurts, truly,” he drawls, Irish accent giving his vowels a heavy curl and torch illuminating a mop of brassy yellow hair.

Oh god fucking dammit.

“Aiden? Didn’t know you was runnin’ with Colm now,” you eye the green bandanna knotted around his sunburnt neck.

Aiden laughs, low and dangerous as he boxes you in against Belle. “Lotsa things you don’t know, baby. Colm’s been huntin’ ole Dutch hard the last month, ever since you’s stole that wagon job offa us.”

“Which one?” you smile mockingly even as your heart thunders deafeningly. _Shitshitshitshitsh-_

“Ye always was the one with jokes, sweet cheeks,” Aiden scoffs. “Imagine my surprise though, when poor ole Liam here comes back from having a good time, ragin’ about some uppity cunt that almost broke his arm. Saw you comin’ out and knew it was fate. So hows about telling me where your friend got off to?”

When you clench your jaw in defiance and maybe a little fear, he smiles sickeningly sweet.

“Who’s you got with ya anyhow?” Aiden asks when no answer comes.

“None of your fuckin’ business,” you bite back.

Aiden stalks forward to crush a sweaty hand against your windpipe, his free hand ghosting over the revolver on his hip.

“Careful, Lizzie,” he murmurs, fingers tightening minutely on your throat. “If you behave I’ll kill ‘em quick so me and you can get outta here, spend some quality time together before we go visit Colm.”

Icy fear floods your veins and rises unchecked to bubble sickeningly in your mouth like sour milk. It’s been years since anyone had used your real name and Aiden _knew_ , smiling cruelly at the shiver that ran down your back. Snarling to hide the panic, your nails dig into the hand on your neck until blood beads down his wrist, black in the moonlight. The pressure on your throat is building bit by bit, black holes beginning to eat into your vision. 

“Think it’ll be easier for everyone here if you’d just shoot me now, save us the hassle,” you rasp.

Aiden makes a show out of thinking. “Temptin’. But I’m sure Colm’s got something fun planned for you, sweetheart. We both know it’ll take some _persuading_ to get you to give up van der Linde."

You sneer at that. "If you ever knew me, Aiden, you know I ain't givin' up shit." 

Aiden sighs and keeps talking but your attention is caught by a fast moving shadow snaking out of the treeline. A curtain of dark hair catches the silvery moonlight just before turning your attention back to your captor, muscles locked in anticipation. Don't pass out, just a bit longer, hurry up, hurry up-

"- love to see the look on the fucker's face when-"

But Aiden is cut off by the _zing_ of an arrow bursting through his neck, hot blood splattering across your face. His lifeless hands fall from your neck, letting you take deep, greedy breaths as you snatch your rifle from its saddle holster and duck for cover behind a nearby boulder.

The dropped torch barely illuminates the remaining men's faces but it's enough to recognize one as the man who had pestered you at the bar earlier. Tutting, you spy Charles creeping noiselessly around the oblivious pair as they wave their guns between you and the treeline, eyes peeled for the threat they can't see.

"Told you to leave me alone," you call, hoping to keep them distracted. 

A bullet ricochets off your cover, fired in desperation. Colm's cronies just keep getting younger and stupider. 

“Fuck you, crazy bitch!” one yelps.

Peering over the boulder, you see an opening and take it. The crack of your rifle splinters out through the night as one of the mounted horses rears and bolts, its now lifeless rider dragging along by a stirrup. A trail of slick blood wets the dirt behind the panicked animal before it darts off the road and disappears over a hill. You duck again as the remaining man takes aim at you but move a fraction too slow. White hot pain sears across your thigh as blood soaks your worn pants in worrying amounts.

 _Mary-Beth’s gonna be so pissed, she just fixed these,_ you think wildly, trying to distract yourself from the ache quickly spreading down your leg.

A deep yell from around your hiding spot jolts your brain back into motion and you peek around cover to find Charles has yanked the O’Driscoll from his saddle. With one smooth motion he slips an enormous hunting knife from his belt and jams it under the man’s jawbone. Blood steams in the cool moonlight as it gushes around the knife and down Charles’ arm. He drops the man without ceremony, who attempts to draw air for several agonizing seconds before finally falling still and quiet.

Sighing heavily, you limp around the rock and make your way to Charles, who whistles for his horse. Taima trots leisurely from the treeline, unfazed by the stench of gunpowder and rust lingering in the air. Belle, bless her, headbutts your shoulder affectionately when you reach her. Smiling tiredly, you lean heavily on her side as your head spins. Charles heaves each body, one at a time, over his shoulder like they weigh nothing and dumps them unceremoniously just inside the treeline. They’ll be spotted easily in daylight but the pair of you will be long gone by then. It occurs to you, faintly, that maybe you should’ve helped as Charles comes striding up to you with furrowed brows.

“You’re bleeding.” 

It’s a statement, not a question.

“Hmm? Oh, yeah,” you shake your head in an attempt to clear it. Your right pant leg is now heavy, sodden with blood and chilly against your skin. “Guess I am.”

Wordlessly, Charles corrals you back to perch on a rock before digging through his saddlebags and kneeling at your side to inspect your leg. Wincing as he begins prodding at the tear in your jeans, you lean back further against the rock and watch him draw a smaller knife from his boot to open the rip a little more.

“How many damn knives you got hidden on ya?” you laugh.

“Enough,” Charles deadpans, hands sure and deft as he pours whiskey over your thigh and begins packing the wound with a sharp, earthy smelling poultice produced from his bags. 

"I- I can do that," you protest. 

The shake of your hands argues otherwise and Charles continues like you hadn't spoken.

“I take it you two knew each other?”

Laughing bitterly, you press a square of clean cloth to your wound as he rummages around for more bandages.

“Yeah. Long time ago. You want the whole sad tale, I’ll need to be real shitfaced first.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Charles says not unkindly as he secures the bandage in place and stands. “That should do for now but it’ll need stitches when we get back. You ok to ride?”

“Don’t think I got much choice,” you grumble before standing. 

The world tilts sharply as you do, making you wobble unsteadily until a pair of large hands clamp down on your shoulders and allow the world to slowly right itself. Blinking rapidly, you brush Charles off and shuffle over to Belle, only to stop and groan loudly at the nippers still peeking out of your saddlebags. Off to your side Charles swings smoothly into the saddle and pats Taima’s neck, words not meant for your ears murmured lowly to her.

Yep, definitely shovin’ that horseshoe up Williamson’s ass later.

Though it eats at your pride, you hobble over to Taima and place a steadying hand on her rump while resolutely avoiding eye contact with her rider.

“Can I- Would you mind-?”

A weathered, scarred palm comes down in front of you. Sighing gratefully, you take his hand and squeak as you’re lifted easily onto Taima’s rump and cling to the cantle as the pair of you set off.

“Thank you,” you whisper for the second time that night.

Charles turns to quirk a brow at you. “Wasn’t gonna make you walk.”

“For patching me up, too.”

“You lost a decent amount of blood,” he says like he's talking about the weather. “Think it’d be bad manners to let you die right after I joined the gang.”

A startled snort of laughter bursts from your mouth that quickly morphs into a jaw cracking yawn. Still chuckling, you grip the cantle tighter and lean your forehead against Charles’ back. The smooth, rocking gait of Taima’s lope is starting to make sleep seem like a great idea.

“Suppose you gotta point,” you mumble just as quiet darkness engulfs your mind.

  
  


The world filters back in slowly, like molasses draining from a tree. You're just so tired and whatever you're laying against is so _warm_ you can't help but burrow deeper into it, breathing in the rich smell of leather and tobacco and mint and blood _-_

Wait, what?

Beating back the sleep clinging to the edges of consciousness, you jerk awake to find yourself riding behind Charles, your arms around his middle and wrists held firm in one of his hands. His grip drops when you pull your hands away and tuck them into the folds of your duster. 

"You almost fell off earlier," he says breezily.

Groaning, your face is buried back into his shoulder to ward off the raging headache you feel coming. Even that makes the scraping pain in your throat known and you reach up to feel what are surely dark, mottled bruises wreathing your neck. God, this guy must think you're fucking useless. Between Aiden and getting patched up and now riding behind him like a sack of flour that needs minding, your face burns hot.

"Sorry," you grumble against his coat.

"You lost a lot of blood. Could've been worse. I'm glad you're awake, actually. Wouldn’t look too good for me to come back alone hauling your body."

Snorting, you peek over his shoulder to find the twisted oak marking the trail head leading to camp. The first fingers of pale orange are just beginning to creep over the horizon as you enter the trees. Which means you'll probably run into Grimshaw first, up at the crack of dawn to make coffee and hem and haw at those who need it. Great. 

But it's John you come across first, his face pinched and tired from the night watch. His posture changes when he recognizes you and Charles riding together, riderless Belle bringing up the rear.

"Anyone dead?" John calls.

"Nothin' some stitches won't heal," you call back, rolling your eyes.

Nodding, he turns and lopes into camp, where you find him waiting by the hitching posts with Mrs. Grimshaw and the medical box on her hip. She tuts loudly when she sees your leg, pants soaked rust red and crusty with dried blood. Charles dismounts and turns to help you get down. On the ground, your leg aches too much to put your full weight on it and you begin hobbling towards your tent, Charles reaching to take most of your weight off the leg as you move. 

"What happened?" John asks as he moves to hold up your other side.

"I don't need carrying," you snarl at John, who backs away with hands raised. "And it was fuckin' O'Driscolls. Was." 

John huffs a scratchy laugh. "Well that's a few less for us to worry about. Where’s Javier and Arthur?" 

“They shouldn’t be too far behind, Arthur sent us ahead with the loot. Long story.”

“Ok…. Anything I can do?” John asks.

“Keep Williamson outta my sight for a little bit, he’s long overdue for an asskicking,” you say as Charles releases you to let you duck into the privacy of your tent.

"Language!," Mrs. Grimshaw calls from where she's hovering outside your tent. “John, Mister Smith, was it? That will be all, thank you.”

As much as you like to grumble about Mrs. Grimshaw’s pestering and reprimanding, the woman is a wonder. She helps you out of your pants before sewing the wound with quick, efficient swoops of the needle and wraps it nice and tight before helping you into the only skirt you own.

“Don’t need you ripping my stitches just because you insist on wearing pants,” she snarks. “I’ll get another one from Miss Jones for you in case it bleeds through but for now, you sleep. I see you on a horse in the next week and I’ll tan your hide.”

“Awh, you ain’t gotta sweet talk me like that.”

In favor of a rebuttal, the matriarch rolls her eyes and gives your shoulder a fond squeeze before gathering her supplies and ducking out the tent. Spreading out over your bedroll, the exhaustion of a sleepless, hectic night finally makes itself known as you fall into deep, dreamless rest.

When you blink awake, the sun is at its peak and bright light is leaking through the worn canvas siding. Groaning, you roll to sit up and clumsily get to your feet. Exiting your shelter, camp is largely deserted, most of the men off on jobs now that the storm has passed. Your stomach rumbles loudly as you stagger by Pearson’s wagon to snatch a hunk of bread and make your slow way to the main fire, lured in by the smell of coffee. Arthur and Hosea are seated on a log, a half forgotten game of poker balanced haphazardly between them as they talk. They turn at the sound of your shuffling and give a warm smile. The two may not look alike but Arthur was Hosea’s son in all the ways that mattered, down to the crinkle around his eyes when he smiled.

“Good to see you up and about, my dear,” Hosea says softly, gesturing to an empty seat.

“Good to be up, Hosea.”

“Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a skirt,” Arthur needles as you lean awkwardly over the percolator.

“Shut up,” the words come out gravelly over your bruised throat. “You two get back ok?”

“Yeah,” Arthur stands and stretches before sitting back down. “Got a bit worried when we came across the bloodbath and two bodies tossed in the woods though. Assuming that was y’alls doin’?”

You finally sit and take a sip of coffee, nodding wordlessly at the question.

“More the new guy’s doin’ than mine.”

Arthur nods before continuing cautiously. “Charles said you knew one of ‘em. Was it-?”

“Yep,” you interrupt over your coffee.

“He dead?”

You smile wanly at the memory of an arrowhead ripping through flesh and blood and hard tissue. “As a doornail.”

“Good,” he drawls. “Good. That's all of 'em, ain't it?"

"Yep."

The three of you sit in easy silence for a while, Hosea contemplating his next move, until Charles comes by with a load of firewood over one shoulder. While dumping the wood he gives you a small nod.

"How's your leg?" He asks softly. Maybe that was just his normal volume, a jarring counterpoint to Sean and John's inability to speak at anything approaching an acceptable range.

"Sore but should be fine in a few days. Thank you again." 

It doesn't hurt your pride quite as much now, thanking the man. You'd probably be in the middle of the Colm O'Driscoll Interrogation Experience without him, not to mention losing all the-

"Awh, dammit!" You shoot up, startling the other three and sloshing coffee across your skirt. "I never put the haul in the box or split it up for us."

Before you can turn to retrieve your saddlebags, Charles waves you down with a sheepish look.

"Hope you don't mind but I did it for you when Dutch asked how it went. Half for the gang, the four of us split the other half, right Arthur?"

"Uh, yeah," he mutters absently, focused on his game. "Dammit, Hosea!"

You smile at Hosea's delighted chuckle, Arthur grumbling about how the older man must've cheated _again_. Not that you'd put it past him.

"Thank you, again," you nod to Charles before he begins to stride away from the fire.

He stops abruptly at your side and digs through a pouch on his hip before emerging with a horseshoe, handing it off with a ghost of a grin. 

"I got this out of your bag, too. I believe you had intentions for it?" He asks, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice. 

Laughing loudly, you snatch the shoe from him with a farewell nod and set off to find the girls perched by their wagon, darning and sewing various clothes and chatting away.

"Hey, Karen!" You call, limping slowly over and waving the shoe with a wicked grin. "Wanna go help me give Bill hell?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! I promise I have A Plan™️ with the whole pining!Javier bit, and reader/Magpie's past, just stick with me. I love feedback and comments
> 
> Also the *monster hunter* thing has a ring of truth to it. On April 26th, 1890, two ranchers chased and shot what was described as an alligator with leathery wings and a long tail. It had a 160ft wingspan and there was an article about it and people came from all over town to see the carcass before they skinned in


End file.
